


Neurotic to the bone (no doubt about it)

by maniasquared



Series: Stucky One-Shots and Drabbles [19]
Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 90's Music, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Battle of the Bands, Cigarettes, Drums, Emo, F/M, Gen, Green Day References, Guitars, M/M, Multi, Music, Musicians, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Piercings, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Bucky Barnes, Punk Rock, Punk Steve Rogers, Rock and Roll, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Scott Lang is a Good Bro, Singing, Smoking, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-13 20:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18947848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maniasquared/pseuds/maniasquared
Summary: Nimble fingers remove a cigarette and pass it to the man, extracting another for himself. He thumbs his lighter on and takes a deep drag. He holds it out for his new counterpart, who just steps forward cockily, tilting in with the thing placed lazily in between his beautiful lips. Letting out some smoke, Steve lights it.“Thanks,” the mystery man says after he sucks in, refusing to give Steve more personal space. “Name’s Bucky, by the way. What’s yours?”“Steve,” he replies, ashing his cigarette.





	Neurotic to the bone (no doubt about it)

**Author's Note:**

> "I am one of those melodramatic fools, neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it"
> 
> Title from "Basket Case" by Green Day.
> 
> I've thought about turning this into a full-length fic, but I haven't had the time or motivation to do it. Whoops.
> 
> This is un-beta'd.

Steve stands in the corner of his apartment and watches his friends settle in one by one. Once he has their attention, he tosses them each a beer. The quiet room fills with the sweet sound of cans opening. He brings the drink to his mouth, grateful for the buzz to come. He’s been on edge the entire week, and the “emergency meeting” that was called has definitely not helped him relax. He speaks up, “And you called us to  _ my _ place because…?”

“We have a gig,” Sam explains, throwing himself into the open armchair and takes a sip before continuing, “And it’s a pretty goddamn important one, kids, so listen up.”

“ _ Yes, sir, _ ” Natasha mocks, rolling her eyes as she fiddles with the tuning keys on her bass guitar from the couch. She expertly dodges a pencil lobbed at her head and gives Sam a sarcastic smile. “Honey, if you throw another fucking pencil at me, I just might have to kick your ass.”

Sam scoffs in fake disbelief, “The redhead’s feisty today…. Isn’t she, Lang?”

Scott just shrugs, not particularly interested in the banter.

Natasha doesn’t dignify Sam with a sassy remark, shaking her head as she says, “Would you just get on with it already? Why is this gig so important?”

“Yeah, dude, let’s get this ‘emergency meeting’ going. I have better things to do than entertain three nut jobs in my living room,” Steve interjects.

“Shut up, Shortstack! I’m getting there,” he retaliates. Steve glares at his bandmate, cursing him silently for the nickname. Sighing, Sam uncrosses his legs and leans forward. His eyes drag across the room, scanning over the others, likely for dramatic effect. “I managed to snag us a gig at The Garage on the 13th. I know we’ve played there before, but it’s not the venue that’s important: it’s the audience. Stark and Banner are going to be there, and they’re scoping out a new band to sign. I’m thinking we can catch their attention.”

“Wait wait wait.” Nat focuses on Sam, scowling. “You’re telling me that the biggest label company in the state of New York is looking for new recruits? And that the two founders of said company are going to be at the show we’re playing in?” He nods. “And you’re telling us this only  _ two weeks ahead of time _ ? And without  _ consulting us first _ ?”

“Uhhh…. Yeah.”

“Sam!” the three band members shout in unison, clearly exasperated.

“Hey! I would have brought it up earlier, but I just found out! I have a buddy who works at the venue, and he just told me that he managed to squeeze us in since one of the other performers decided to ride his bike one night, and he got hit by a fucking car. Cut me some slack!” Sam puts up his hands in defense. “And I would have asked if you were down if the answer wasn’t needed immediately. It was either I put us down or we lose the opportunity!”

“Damn, I hope that guy’s okay,” Scott says, brows furrowing together.

“Me too, but do you know what this means for us? Guys, we have a shot at getting signed and producing a motherfucking album!”

“True, but that also means we need to start working our asses off to do that,” Steve points out, chewing on his bottom lip. Teeth catching on his lip ring, he winces slightly.

“Hence the emergency meeting,” his friend nearly yells.

“Are they really going to want to sign a cover band? They might not want to risk signing a band that doesn’t have—or play—any original music in a set,” Steve worries aloud, his anxiety getting the best of him. He flinches when the lip ring tugs painfully once more.

“You better fucking stop or you’re going to yank that thing right out of your face,” Sam jokes. He turns serious in a split second, “Cap, you’ve written some songs, right?”

“Y-yeah, I have, but I-I don’t think we can pull it off such short notice,” Steve’s face goes red; he’s never shared his music with anyone before. “And you guys don’t even know if they’re any good, you haven’t heard it….”

“I get that we don’t have time—let’s be optimistic, man! I’m sure your stuff sounds great—for this show, though, we’ll stick to our covers.” He throws his arms into the air to prove his point; he does this a lot. Going back to the original question posed, “But, we’ll never know if they’ll sign if we don’t perform, Shortstack.”

“Sam, I swear, if you—”

Sam interrupts before he can finish his threat, “Are we all in, or what?”

“I’m in,” Scott answers.

“Yeah, I’m in,” Natasha grins.

They all turn to Steve, waiting for a confirmation. He blinks and rolls his eyes, “What are you looking at me for? Of course, I’m in!”

 

The following meeting isn’t quite a walk in the park, at least not in the beginning. Sam’s late, which pisses off Natasha. She asserts that they should start without him and catch him up when he finally decides to show up. Steve, being the inclusive person he is, refutes the idea, claiming since it’s such a big gig, all group members should be present for the decision making. The two acquiesce because Steve’s the leader of the group and they listen to him, hence the second nickname he’s been dubbed: ‘Captain,’ or ‘Cap’ for short. Steve much prefers that one over ‘Shortstack;’ he’ll probably kill Sam one day for creating that dumbass nickname.

They sit for another twenty minutes before the missing bandmate crashes into the apartment, carrying multiple bags of fast food.

“Sorry I’m late,” he wheezes. Steve assumes he ran up the stairs. “I picked up some greasy goodness for everyone, but there was this fucking moron who wanted to drive thirty-five miles per hour on the goddamned two-lane highway. Can you believe it? I couldn’t get around him! Like, hello, gas is on the right, buddy! Can’t you read the signs? It fucking says the speed limit’s sixty miles per hour, ya fuck face!”

Steve and Scott laugh at their friend’s rage, taking the bags handed to them. Although Natasha’s not pleased, she graciously swallows her tongue and accepts the burger and fries, mumbling a ‘thanks, Wilson.’

To which he replies, “No problem, sugar.” He plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek and she scoffs in mock disgust, but Steve can see her blushing. He smiles to himself.

After decimating the food, they dive into a discussion over what should be their setlist—well, it’s not so much a discussion as it’s a heated argument between Scott and Sam.

“I’m telling you, if we want to get Stark and Banner’s attention, we need to do ‘She’s A Rebel’ and follow it up with ‘Creep.’ It’ll show how we can play different sounds under a similar genre. Plus, you fucking shred in ‘She’s A Rebel,’ Sam! And it’ll show them Roger’s wicked vocal range in ‘Creep.’ They’ll never see it coming with him being so small!”

“Scottie, I swear to God, we aren’t playing ‘She’s A Rebel.’ It doesn’t display any  _ actual _ talent for any of us. It’s a safety song, not one that’s going to get us a record deal. I agree that we should do ‘Creep’ but I stand by my suggestion of ‘Whatshername.’ You can’t change my mind.”

Nat and Steve watch the whole thing unfold; the singer doodles on the notebook paper they're supposed to put the setlist on. They haven’t even put a single song down yet. Actually, he should put down ‘Creep’ since Scott and Sam agree on  _ one _ thing. His attention is regained when he hears his name.

“Steve, what do you think? Should we do ‘She’s A Rebel’ or ‘Whatshername?’”

He mulls over the two, trying to find a way to make both parties happy. “I’m going to ignore the comment about my size—so don’t you dare think that’s what’s swaying my opinion, Lang—I’m thinking ‘Whatshername.’” Scott opens his mouth to protest, but Steve rushes to finish his thought. “ _ And  _ I think we should do ‘Basket Case’ as well. It has the same effect that you’re talking about with sound and how Sam sounds on guitar, just a little more difficult. Also, it has a great opportunity for you to show off your drumming, Scott. How about that?”

The men agree, both content with the compromise. Scott adds, “Man, why didn’t I think of ‘Basket Case,’ it’s fucking great for shows, people love that shit.”

“Wait—do you think we should two Green Day songs?” Steve asks. “I mean, like… they’re not going to think that’s weird, right?”

“Dude, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Scott chuckles, shoving his friend’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine as long as we don’t play them back to back, yeah?”

The other bandmates agree.

Steve shakes his head with a grin, writing down the confirmed songs, bringing their list to a total of three. “How long is our time slot, again?”

“We have a half hour; it’s not a long time but it should be enough if we are strategic with our song choices. If my math is correct, that’s roughly seven or eight songs with a little wiggle room,” Natasha clarifies. She hasn’t suggested any music for them since the start of the meeting. Steve addresses this and she brushes it off, “I didn’t have any ideas until drummer boy over here brought up ‘She’s A Rebel’ and I haven’t been able to get in a word since then because all you men ever do is fight.”

The guys begin to protest but quickly stop when they realize they’d just prove her right.

She laughs and offers, “What about ‘The Rock Show?’”

It gets put on the list promptly. So does ‘Dirty Little Secret’ as proposed by Steve.

‘Ocean Avenue’ from Nat, ‘Daylily’ from Sam, and finally ‘Zombie’ from Scott get put on the list; not without major bickering, though (mostly from Sam and Scott). Natasha and Steve seem to be there for handling negotiations more than anything else.

“Do you think we’ll have to transpose anything for you, Cap?” Scott inquires, popping a lone fry into his mouth. “I mean, I know we’ve done these before, but I want you to sound as good as possible and I don’t want you to strain your voice at all.”

He shakes his head in response, pauses, then suggests, “What if Nat did ‘Zombie’ instead? That would definitely make us stand out to Stark and Banner.”

“Oh…. I-I don’t think I can do that, guys….” Natasha stammers, eyes going wide. Steve’s never seen her so nervous; she’s always calm and confident. He takes her hand and gives her the look his friends like to call ‘the morale booster,’ as if he’s some kind of spokesperson. She considers it, weighing the options in her head. She huffs a little. “Yeah, I can… I can do it.”

The men holler in celebration. Nat’s a talented singer, but she opts to be backup vocals. She doesn’t like receiving a lot of attention, so this is a huge step for her.

“Well, it looks like we have a list of songs, now we just have to decide the order,” Steve announces, borderline deadpan. Truth be told, he’s exhausted and he can’t wait to crawl into bed once his friends leave. Thankfully, they disperse pretty fast once they agree to work on the actual setlist when they have their first rehearsal. Soon enough, he falls flat on his face into his mattress, not bothering to change before he sleeps.

 

The next couple of weeks go by in a blur.  _ A rather stressful blur _ , Steve’s mind intrudes,  _ but a blur all the same. _ The band works virtually day and night, practicing and practicing and practicing some more. Steve’s pretty sure that they could all play their set in their sleep with how much they prepared. It doesn’t matter, though, they’re still giddy by the end of each session.

Scott is the only one with a trailer that can hold all of their equipment (and the only one with a vehicle that’ll be able to handle the weight), otherwise they’d all have to drive separately and Steve doesn’t like to do that because, you know, it’s bad for the environment. When the truck pulls up to the back of the venue, Steve jumps out and gets them signed in. Waving to his bandmates, he signals for them to unpack. Grabbing the lanyards with their passes from one of the stage managers, he walks back and distributes them.

A few crew members roll a large cart over and help out to transfer their equipment safely. Steve isn’t quite strong enough to be much help with the task at hand; he can’t carry much more than his guitar, one of the many things he hates about his meager stature. He leans against the trailer and directs everyone what to do instead. Once they have everything precariously stacked, Sam and Nat follow the crew members inside the building while pushing the cart; Scott drives off to park, and Steve waits for him near the performers’ entrance.

The nerves really start to settle in at this point. Steve’s jittery, running his fingers through his hair and letting out a huff of breath. It’s only five and the show doesn’t even start until seven thirty, yet here he is, a nervous ball of anxiety. There’s only one thing that can take the edge off.

“Do ya think I could bum a cig off ya?” A voice comes from beside Steve as he pulls out a pack from his breast pocket; it’s rough like sandpaper. He turns his head to see the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid eyes on in his life. Long, dark hair falling into stunning grey eyes, his sharp bone structure accentuated by his stubble. Steve feels like he can’t breathe.

Steve blinks and blushes when the guy raises his eyebrow with a smirk. Nimble fingers remove a cigarette and pass it to the man, extracting another for himself. He thumbs his lighter on and takes a deep drag. He holds it out for his new counterpart, who just steps forward cockily, tilting in with the thing placed lazily in between his beautiful lips. Letting out some smoke, Steve lights it.

“Thanks,” the mystery man says after he sucks in, refusing to give Steve more personal space. “Name’s Bucky, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Steve,” he replies, ashing his cigarette. He leans back against the brick wall, looking where he saw Scott drive off. His gaze meets Bucky’s and he witnesses the man tuck a few strands of hair behind his ear. He notices the multiple piercings immediately and he finds them terribly hot. Steve’s always had a thing for gauges and double piercings. He drinks Bucky in, admiring his taste in clothes and tattoo design. The ink nearly covers the entirety of his arms and Steve wishes he could see if Bucky had more underneath those black, torn up skinny jeans. The bright green lanyard on his neck is the only source of color in his outfit;  _ he must also be a performer for the show.  _ His biceps flex against the plain tee shirt in an entrancing way as he flicks ash.  _ God, he’s fucking exquisite. _

Bucky hums in acknowledgment. He licks his lips, taking another hit, “Steve.”  _ It sounds so damn alluring coming out of his mouth. _ “I like it… a cute name for a cute guy.” He winks.

Steve flushes pink, ducking his head down as he continues to smoke. He manages to stammer out a ‘thanks.’ Steve’s never been great at talking to new people, let alone flirting. He stubs out the end of his cigarette against the wall and pulls out another to fill the silence. Bucky gives him a sideways glance filled with amusement. “What?”

“S’nothing.”

“Bucky, we’ve known each other for less than ten minutes and I can already tell you’re lying. C’mon, fess up.”

Bucky throws his head back when he laughs and Steve feels his stomach erupt with butterflies. He wants to make Bucky laugh again just so he can hear the intoxicating sound. He can’t help but grin.

“It’s jus’ that I’ve never met someone who  _ actually _ chain smokes, Stevie.”

Even though he thinks it’s impossible, Steve manages to blush harder at the nickname. “It’s only two cigarettes, Buck, calm yourself.”

He receives a chuckle. “Yeah, guess I can’t say much since I’ve gone through way more in one sittin’ before. And that makes  _ me  _ the chain smoker.”

“And how much would that be exactly?” Steve teases, nearly half done with his second cigarette. He really needs to cut back, but he doesn’t know if he can.

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to blush. “Don’ wanna say.” Steve gives him a look. “Okay, okay….  _ Fine _ . The most has been—well—five.”

“Five’s not that  _ too _ bad,” Steve assured, he’s probably done the same once.

“Yeah, five…. Plus two.”

“ _ Seven _ ?” He asks incredulously. Bucky nods his head, smiling sheepishly.

“It was one time, and it was a rough day t’say the least,” he explains. Steve knows how that feels, and he tells Bucky that, extending his arm and patting him on the shoulder. He swears electricity is running through their bodies as they touch,  _ does Bucky feel it too? _ “Hey, Stevie, can I ask ya a question?”

“Seems like you just did,” he responds tauntingly, looking amused. He flicks the cigarette and takes the last few precious puffs before putting it out. He faces Bucky; his demeanor more confident. Bucky reflects the same,  _ but he eludes something much sexier _ , Steve thinks.

“Shut up, ya know what I meant.” The words could be taken as aggressive, but the smile Bucky wears says otherwise. He steps on the butt of his finished cig, eye contact never wavering.

Steve fakes contemplation, maybe Bucky will get the picture if he says it…. Throwing caution to the wind, he says, “Make me.”

Almost instantly, Bucky surges forward, crashing their lips together. Although taken slightly off guard, Steve kisses back just as desperately. His hands fly into dark hair and pull him closer. They’re on fire and sparks are flying.  _ This can’t be happening, it fucking can’t be happening…. Oh, but it is, _ he recognizes as one strong hand holds him at the base of his neck and the other slides down to grip his small hip. Their bodies entwine. He groans, it’s all teeth and tongue but it’s so amazing. He doesn’t want to stop; he wants to discover what Bucky tastes like underneath the nicotine and tobacco, however, he’s running out of breath.

Someone clears their throat, bringing the two back to reality rather abruptly. Steve follows the source of noise and jumps back from Bucky when he realizes Scott was the culprit. Or is Steve the culprit? Who knows….

“Uh—hi—hey, Lang….” His voice cracks embarrassingly; he still feels on fire but now for completely different reasons. “This… this is Bucky…. Bucky, this is my friend, Scott.”

They both simply nod respectfully. Steve wants to punch that shit-eating grin right off his bandmate’s face. Scott clicks his phone on to see the time in the awkward silence.

“Well,  _ Captain _ , I see that you’re a little preoccupied, so I’ll see you backstage,” the drummer jests, whistling and twirling his keys as he saunters off.

Bucky giggles, returning his attention to Steve, though this time without touching. “He seems… nice.”

“Yeah, he is. Believe it or not, he’s the best out of my other mates.”

“‘Mates’?” Steve knows that Bucky means to ask it in a careless, nonchalant way, but he can hear the smallest bit of fear in his voice. Does he think that Steve’s in a poly relationship? Or a guy with multiple partners?  _ A manwhore _ ?!

He clarifies, “Yeah… yeah, my other bandmates.” He watches Bucky’s shoulders relax a little,  _ it’s goddamn adorable _ . He doesn’t know what else to say, so he goes with: “You were going to ask a question?”

“Oh—yeah, that’s right—well….” Bucky grunts, blushing once more. “I was… I was gonna ask if you were seein’ anyone, and if I could get your number.”

Steve beams up at the man. “I’m not seeing anyone, no. And yes, I’d love to give you my number.” They exchange contact information and Bucky sticks his phone into his back pocket. Steve takes his chances and offers, “I have to go check in with my bandmates, but if you’d like, we can grab a drink at the bar in—say—a half hour?”

At that, Bucky grins and agrees. They walk in together, going their separate ways once they get through the doors. But they’ll meet again.  _ Soon, but not soon enough _ , Steve thinks as he still tastes the man on his tongue.


End file.
